Page 115 of She Who Was Severed

I don’t move.

I let the room empty. Let the air settle. I need to ask something I shouldn’t want to. And I hate that I do.

When I finally slip out, I don’t go far. Down one hall, past two doors that smell like dried blood and moldy parchment. Left at the busted pipe. Right at the burn mark in the floor shaped like a hand. I know where he’ll be. Owen’s routine in ways he pretends not to be. Same leaning wall. Same cracked barrel. Same back corner of Ashmere that looks out on nothing but dust.

I find him there, like I always do. Feet kicked up, sleeves rolled high, folding a blood-streaked napkin into something delicate and useless.

“Don’t you get tired pretending to be weird?” I ask.

He doesn’t look up. “Not at all. I’m a thrilling burden.”

I cross my arms, lean against the opposite wall, and wait. The silence settles between us, dry and brittle, like it might snap if either of us breathes too hard.

“You knew I’d follow.”

He shrugs. “I always do.”

“You’re not a prophet. You’re just smug.”

He smiles without showing teeth. “They look the same from where I’m standing.”

I want to drag this out. Wrap it in sarcasm. Let it rot in pretense until it stops mattering. But I don’t. Because the longer I wait, the worse it feels—like admitting a weakness that doesn’t go away once spoken.

So I just say it.

“Can you really restore bonds?”

Owen folds the napkin again—slow, deliberate, like it’s something sacred instead of stained linen. Then he sets it aside and meets my eyes.

“Yes.”

“I wasn’t sure it was actually possible.”

“It’s not,” he says, calm as ever. “Which is what makes it interesting.”

I brace for cruelty. Or a joke. Or some offhand quip to knock me off center. But he just watches me. Quiet. Focused. Like he already knows what I’ll look like on the other side—and isn’t sure I’ll make it.

“My bond didn’t fade,” I say. “I cut it. It was pulling me under, and I—”

“Survived,” he finishes. Not unkind, but not softened either.

“Barely.”

He nods once. “You bled for your freedom. And now you want the collar again.”

My jaw tightens. “It wasn’t a collar.”

He doesn’t blink. “No. But it fit the same if you didn’t choose it.”

The air between us goes thin. He’s not testing me. Not exactly. Just watching for where the cracks already are.

“I don’t want the old bond back,” I say. “I’m not looking to rewind the damage. I want something else. Not a rebind. A rewrite.”

Owen tilts his head. Like he hears something inside me I haven’t admitted yet.

“Then you already understand the cost.”

“What cost?”